Hera hadn't left his side since Kanan had returned. In the infirmary, she existed in the chair next to him, leaving only to retrieve a meal or pain medication. She slept there, her hand clutching his, head resting on his cot. Her neck and shoulders had never been so stiff, but the sensation barely registered. Love, concern, and a deep pain had consumed her. When he was finally well enough to return to the Ghost, she moved a cot into his room and slept there.

Their arrangement was under the pretense that Kanan might need something late at night, but everyone knew that they couldn't stand to be apart from each other, even for a minute. Most nights, the cot was empty. Kanan felt the blindness most crushed him late at night, when the sounds of the Ghost and its crew had died down, when the engine's hum could not be felt, when the doors were sealed and no smell of food or fresh air lingered. It was then that Hera became the connection to a world he could no longer see, could barely hear, feel, or catch the scent of. He kept himself sane through the steady beat of her heart, the reliable whisper of her breath, and the faint spice of her skin.

She grounded him. Grounded him to a world that he often feared was lost forever. Sabine's art was gone. Never again would he see the wonders her hand produced. The Mandalorian had started painting in thick smears, intentionally leaving globs of paint on the paper, raised and in an array of textures so that he could still have some sense of what she had created. She would press the paper into his hands, so he could run his fingertips along it, trying to get a sense of what she had created. He knew, even before touching it, that it was beautiful.

"See, this here, that's dark brown," she was guiding his hand along the painting, "And this patch is more of a tan." Her hand was small, warm, and she sat next to him, right leg pressed against his left. A few weeks ago, it might have felt odd, having Sabine so close to him. Now, the physical contact was something he asked his team for; it was like having proof that they were there, assurance that they hadn't sprung from his delirium.

"Mhm," Kanan murmured, smoothing his fingers across the surface. "What are these raised bumps here, polka dots?"

"Yeah, they are," she nodded, excited for him. "Can you tell what it is?" Sabine sounded hopeful, heartbreakingly so. Hera watched them from across the common room, a smile on her face but pain in her eyes.

"Hmm…" Kanan reached out to the Force. "It almost feels like… some sort of small animal?" He spread his hand further. "Wait… I know those ears! It's a Loth-cat, isn't it?"

Sabine was thrilled. "Yes!" Her elation tugged at his heart. "How do you do that?"

"Well, I wouldn't be able to, if you weren't such a good artist," he smiled. "This is one of your best."

"Kanan," Sabine groaned, but he couldn't see the delighted grin on her cheeks. "You say that every time."

"Well, it must be true," Kanan shrugged. "Jedi can't lie, you know."

Sabine snickered, and the nudge from her shaking shoulders moved his hand to a new section of the painting. "Um, what's this… sticky spot, here?"

He felt Sabine shift closer to him, and in his mind's eye, could picture her narrowing her eyes to inspect the sketch. He missed that seeing that expression on her.

Sabine gasped. "EZRA!" She jumped up, and her presence next to him vanished, replaced by the sound of feet charging down the corridor. Kanan chuckled, but his laughter faded in sync with the vanishing sound. He brushed his fingers over the painting once again and sighed.

Hera re-appeared; she was never far, even when she knew Kanan had someone with him. "It's very good," she said softly, touching his shoulder. "I think she made it to cheer Ezra up."

Kanan sniffed the residue on his fingertips. "Smells like meiloorun. At least he's finally eating again."

He heard Hera's sigh above him. "Thank the stars for that."

Ezra had been troubled since Malachor. He hadn't been sleeping well, had barely eaten. Hera had forced him to choke down a nutrition bar, only to find him retching outside the Ghost, knelt on the Atollon sand. As she comforted him, Ezra asked her not to tell Kanan. Incidents like these were happening consistently, whether over sleep, food or plain misery. Hera had stopped counting the times she had found Ezra crying, or wandering the Ghost in the middle of the night. She tried to hide most of them from her love, to protect him, but his connection with Ezra was too powerful to transcend. Kanan felt his Padawan's pain, often more acutely than his own, and there was nothing she could do to help, the one position Hera hated being put in. The guilt of Kanan's blindness hung over the boy, but slowly, he had been getting better. The Jedi had told his Padawan to stop blaming himself countless times, and it seemed the message was finally starting to sink in. As Kanan healed, they had resumed training once again, which seemed to help Ezra cope, and their bond grew stronger still, healing from the cracks that Malachor had dealt to it.

In its own way, Malachor had damaged not just those on the mission, but all of the crew. Even Chopper was less impish, more subdued.

Sabine was still an artist, but some of the joy had been lost, with the knowledge that she couldn't truly share her work with Kanan ever again. The girl usually showed Hera whatever she had created, but for whatever reason, the Jedi had a special appreciation for it. Hera was a pilot and a fighter; while she made sure to respond with well-deserved praise when Sabine was proudly displaying her artwork (few things brought out her maternal instinct more than Sabine's eager brown eyes), Kanan had always had more success in the creative area, and that was fine with her. They were partners, after all— a perfectly balanced team.

Zeb was hurting too, and far more than he let on. The only family he had left had been seriously threatened by forces he had no power to stop. The Lasat felt helpless and angry; he never should have let them go down alone. The regret grew stronger with every glance at Kanan, every anxious wring of Hera's hands, every listless response from Ezra and glob of paint Sabine added to her artwork, in an effort to make it visible to Kanan. It burned into him until the very walls of the Ghost became suffocating, and he was choosing to spend more and more of his time outside of the ship, in solitude. The desert was the one place that couldn't remind him of his regret.

Hera regretted letting them go at all; nothing had been gained, in contrast to incomparable loss: Kanan's eyes, Ezra's confidence, the morale of her crew, Ahsoka… Force knew what had become of Ahsoka. Rex had taken her disappearance especially hard.

She hated to be selfish, in times like these, when she was so needed by so many others… But she missed his eyes. They had been the loveliest teal; she had never told him this, but they reminded her of the elegant skin of her mother. Without linking them to Kanan at all, his eyes held so many blissful memories: they took her back to a time before the Clone Wars, before her father had become so power-crazed, a time when she was small enough to be held by her mother, and when her greatest concerns had been whether or not the clouds in the sky would prevent her from seeing the ships fly.

And then, when she looked beyond his eyes, to all of what Kanan was… the memories only grew. Most of them joyous, some humorous, others threaded with danger and adrenaline. His eyes held everything for her; they had been in her life so long now, that had started to encompass her most important memories. Meeting Kanan, finding each additional member of their crew, the moment when their fight had become part of something greater.

His eyes had always held something for her, whether it was a memory, a joke, or quiet, tacit love. Sometimes it was a daring suggestion, sometimes a bold plan. Occasionally, and more and more often, it was fear; occasionally, and more and more often, it was relief. After instances with Ezra and Sabine, she could glimpse pride in them, and maybe just a touch of affectionate annoyance. Throughout all of the creatures, damaged by the Empire, they had encountered in their journey, there was a touch of pity, of sympathy.

Rarely, usually regarding Order 66, was there pain. But it was one of the last things his eyes had held for her. He had tried to cover it with concern, and with confidence, and it was certainly backed by deep love, but she had seen it nonetheless. The last eyes she had seen were filled with such confliction that she had closed her own, choosing to attend to his heartbeat instead.

Ironic, that their roles had been reversed.

His eyes were gone now, lost forever. The memories were not; their love was not. Everything that was important still remained. She still knew him better than anybody, could tell what he was thinking before he had even spoken. But it was harder now, without his eyes. To say that things could ever be the same would be lying.

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After she had properly disciplined Ezra for his unwelcome addition to her painting, Sabine found Hera, who had just finished changing Kanan's bandages. The Twi'lek had taken this on as her personal duty: Ezra had been scarred by the task enough, and she and Kanan agreed that Sabine and Zeb needn't know the damage Maul had done.

"Hera, when you're done with that, can you help me for a second?"

Hera nodded. "Be right there, Sabine."

"I'll be in my bunk," Sabine informed her, heading in that direction. She heard Hera whisper, "I'll be right back, love," behind her, and soon the pilot followed. Hera recognized the setup in Sabine's room: two towels, plastic gloves and a bottle of hair dye were spread.

"Dying your hair again, Sabine?" She smiled knowingly.

"Just touching up the roots," Sabine shrugged, sitting on her bed. The pair fell into a familiar routine: Sabine sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her bed, and Hera sat behind her, arranging the towel around her shoulders.

"Really? This is normally the time you start to change it up," Hera remarked, pulling the gloves on.

Sabine's voice softened. "I'm… actually keeping it this color," she said quietly. "For Kanan."

Hera's voice caught in her throat. "What do you mean?" She spread the dye on her hands and started rubbing it into Sabine's hair.

"He picked it out," Sabine explained, and then giggled. "On accident."

"Oh?" Hera inquired. The Twi'lek's fingers were soothing on Sabine's scalp, and her sensitive touch helped coax the story out.

"It was a supply run, a while back. I had to stay to pilot the Phantom, so I asked him to pick up the dye for me," she laughed softly. "I gave him the right color, brand, number and everything, but… he brought back this one instead. I didn't know until we were in hyperspace, and I didn't want to make him feel bad."

Hera laughed out loud. "Sabine, that last sentence could describe my entire relationship with Kanan."

Sabine giggled. "I think there's a lot more to it than that, but still funny."

Hera's hands slowed for a moment, and her voice dropped to a reflective murmur. "I suppose there is."

After a moment, she resumed her original speed, massaging the dye carefully and precisely into Sabine's roots, and cleared her throat. "This is a good color on you."

Sabine's voice softened next. "It was the color of his eyes."

The motion on her scalp abruptly stopped. Worried she had said too much, Sabine turned her head back. "Hera, I'm sorry—"

"No," Hera shook her head, blinking her eyes tightly against tears. "It's beautiful. I'm glad you told me."

Sabine turned her head forward once again, but she had caught a glimpse of Hera's sorrow. The pilot was always so composed, glimpses of emotion from her were rare. To see even a crack in her composure meant that something was deathly wrong. The idea of Hera staying so strong for all of them, concealing and pushing her own grief aside to protect her crew, created a sadness inside the Mandalorian so deep that it burned her up. Tears started to sting her eyes, and unable to bear it any longer, she shook her head, knocking Hera's hands away.

"Sabine, what's—"

She thrust herself onto the bed and into Hera's chest. "I want it to stay the way he remembers me," she choked out, clinging to her mentor.

Hera was struck and saddened by the display of emotion. She yanked the gloves off as fast as she could and hugged the girl, who had never before seemed so fragile. "Oh, Sabine…" she whispered, stroking her back.

"I know it's stupid," Sabine mumbled into her shoulder.

"Hey," Hera said firmly. "It's not stupid. It's sweet, and thoughtful, and compassionate and kind. That's how Kanan remembers you. As brave, and beautiful, and talented and hopeful and curious and clever and strong. Not by your hair or your armor, but by your heart."

Sabine's shoulders quaked with a restrained sob, and she clutched Hera tighter.

"He doesn't need his eyes to see any of that," Hera murmured, stroking her hair, "And he's not going to forget it anytime soon." She kept her fingers running soothingly through Sabine's locks until the girl stopped shaking. Sabine sniffed, and lifted her head, sitting up on her own.

She turned to her mother figure and gave a weak smile. "Thanks, Hera."

"Anytime, dear." Hera's voice was warm and sincere. Sabine's gaze drifted downward.

"Hera, your hands!" She gasped in dismay. Hera looked down as well; her emerald skin had been stained teal, starting most brightly at her fingers and then fading down the length of her hands.

The pilot just chuckled. "It's a good color. I don't mind." She took one colorful hand and gently pushed Sabine's bangs back, planting a kiss on her forehead. "Now we match."

Sabine watched in awe as Hera stood, and turned to her just in front of the door. "Let that dye sit for a while. If you need with anything else, let me know."

"Thanks," she whispered, her voice coming out softer than intended. As Hera departed, Sabine brought her fingertips to her forehead, touching the spot as if she could preserve the moment it accompanied.

Before returning to Kanan, Hera found a clean white bandage, and wiped her hands on it. Most of the dye had dried, but the faint streaks that came out were a lovely teal. She surveyed the cloth in satisfaction, figuring she could save it for a special occasion, and stored it, making her way back to Kanan.

"Everything alright with Sabine?" He asked, as he reached out for her hand.

Hera grasped his and sat with him. "She's just re-touching her hair. She really likes that blue you so carefully picked out," she teased.

"Ugh," Kanan facepalmed. "I knew I had gotten the wrong one, but she never said anything!"

"She didn't want to hurt your feelings," Hera laughed at her lover's indignation. "Seriously, she likes it. She's going to keep it that way for a while."

"Good," Kanan nodded. "Saves me the trouble of trying to picture her with a different color." His tone was somewhat jocular, but like most of their recent exchanges, a sadness hung beneath it. Hera sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"You should rest," he murmured.

"I'm not tired," Hera shook her head and lifted it, moving to stand, but he pulled her back to her seat.

"You realize I know when you're lying, right?" Kanan chuckled and wrapped an arm around his love. "Rest. You need it."

Hera opened her mouth to retort, but changed her mind, letting her head fall back to his shoulder instead. Kanan relaxed too; it was a relief to be taking care of her for a change.

A/N: I'm thinking about doing a Kanera follow-up to this, because they are perfect and deserve it (and because still reeling from that season finale). Hope you liked!